“how’d you break up?”
he was the kind of boy you didn’t write poems about the kind that filled his life with self-fulfilled prophecies of rebellious women who took his love his money it was the sort of game you don’t play challenging him to a relationship and he told me from the beginning he didn’t do these kinds of things and maybe I should have known when our hands didn’t quite fit together but the sunlight glossed over the scar tissue in his eyes and I always thought those were the kind of things that made us beautiful and soon enough the spaces between our fingers became the spaces in our conversations the way his feet faced towards me as he talked to her
when a boy tells you he’s not good enough believe him when he says he doesn’t love you he means it you are more than the way he looked at you when he left
you are loved by a universe who cares about your soul about whether or not you recycle
fuck him